


The World At Large

by Kangofu_CB



Series: Float On [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gift Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Preventers (Gundam Wing), Sort of happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 22:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11907273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: Duo is lost, drifting, after the events of Endless Waltz, but he starts to find himself again, thanks to a travel blog and an online friendship.





	The World At Large

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Remsyk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remsyk/gifts).



> This is a gift fic for Remsyk, who has really just been super lovely and a gift to the fandom as a whole, and I just wanted to do something nice. Instead, you get this angst-filled nonsense and I'm sorry it's not happy? This was inspired by a faceclaim I came across on Instagram and, well, here you go and I hope you kind of like it?

_ I like songs about drifters, books about the same _

_ They both seem to make me feel a little less insane _

-Modest Mouse

* * *

 

Duo had stumbled across the blog by accident.  One of the guys in the office had been showing him pictures of Aruba, where he and his soon-to-be wife were going to go on their honeymoon, and one of the photos had struck him.  Something about the juxtaposition of the sky and the water, just the toes of the photographer in the bottom corner of the photo.

So he’d looked up the photographer.

And found an Instagram account, connected to a travel blog, blogger identity unknown.

Then he’d gotten hooked.  

There were all the places Duo had dreamed of visiting when the war ended, before he’d gotten roped into Preventers, before he’d become Une’s favorite pet agent.  Before Heero had taken off.

Before. 

Before.

Before.

The blog and instagram had pictures of everything from breathtaking vistas to well-digging in Africa.  Feeding hungry children.  The view from the top of Mt. Everest.  Churches.  Ancient archeological sites.  People - young, old, rich, poor.  A lunar eclipse.  The captions were short and concise, a location and date, the occasional clarification if it was required.  

Never the photographer.  Except for the occasional silhouette as he hung over the edge of a canyon or his feet as he base-jumped from a skyscraper.   Never a face or a name or a goddamn clue who it was out there living Duo’s dream life.

Then there had been the mission in Sierra Leone, and Duo had come back with the smell of burning flesh in his nostrils and screams ringing in his ears and a real bad case of ‘why the fuck am I still doing this?’ 

On the blog had been an icy, secluded lake in Canada that looked like heaven.  

Duo had booked a flight, marching to Une’s office and demanding some R&R time, and he had gone.  

Three days of mountain climbing, canoeing, and one very memorable polar bear plunge had left him in a better state of mind than he’d been in… well, hell, ever.  

Duo had joined Preventers after the Mariemaia incident.  He’d been a bit lost, drifting, after the Eve Wars, doing some scrap here and there with Hilde, some Sweeper work with Howard, drifting, aimlessly.  Then the Bartons had gotten delusions of grandeur and he’d been off like a shooting star with Heero, saving the world, watching Heero damn near die in the process.

After that it hadn’t seemed  _ right _ to just disappear.  And he hadn’t a clue what to do with himself anyway.  Wufei was joining, and while he wasn’t happy with what the guy had done with the Mariemaia thing, he could appreciate the sentiment behind it, and so a Peacekeeping organization had seemed like a good choice.  It had helped that Une offered him a clean slate, a diploma, and access to a college education.  Trowa had joined too, for many of the same reasons.

Heero had disappeared as soon as he’d been able to check himself out of the hospital.  He stopped, briefly, in Duo’s new government-provided apartment, glancing over it without a word, before he’d clasped Duo’s forearm in both a greeting and a farewell, said “Thanks for all your help,” and left without a forwarding address.

That had been seven years ago.

Seven years of shit missions, boldly going where no-one else dared, getting wounds no-one else risked, and stopping bad guys no-one else could.  

It had been alright, at first.  They’d partnered him with Trowa, and he couldn’t have asked for better.  But they’d gotten stuck in a firefight gone pear shaped and Trowa had taken a bullet to the knee, and Duo had dragged his lanky ass into a foxhole and hidden them for two days of bleeding and infection until the cavalry had arrived, saving his life, but not his knee.  

He could walk, but he was permanently out of the field.

He’d resigned six months later, after Quatre offered him a position on his security team and an opportunity to explore the nebulous  _ something _ that had existed between them during the war.

To be fair, Quatre had offered Duo the same thing, but he hadn’t felt ready, and he couldn’t even look at Trowa without flinching in guilt and remembered pain.  The Heavyarms pilot had never blamed him, had in fact  _ thanked _ him, and not until Trowa had started sending him Happy Anniversary cards in remembrance of the day of the ill-fated mission did Duo finally let go of the idiotic sense of fault he carried over it.

But he’d stayed with the Preventers, trying to do his part to keep the peace.

After Trowa there’d been a string of partners, all of them fine, really, ok for anyone except a twitchy, paranoid, ‘anything for the mission’ mindset Gundam Pilot, and finally they’d made him a solo agent.

Which just meant the shit missions were even worse because he had no backup and no one to let off any steam with.

Hell, no one to even talk about the missions with because they were classified up the wazoo.

It was lonely and draining and some days Duo was so done that he didn’t want to get out of bed, and Quatre had started calling him with concerning regularity, reminding him that their home was open to him, that the job was there for the taking.  Had implied there might be room for more than that with them, if Duo were so inclined.  

He took another vacation after that.  

This time he went to Arches National Park, after a gorgeous shot of the photographer nearly invisible in the shadows of an enormous wind-carved arch in Utah.  The sheer beauty of it gave him a sense of insignificance and awe that was good for the world-on-his-shoulders feeling that he lived with constantly. 

It became a habit.

Duo learned from human resources (after eight fucking years, mind you) that any time he came off of a long or intense mission he was entitled to a 72 hour furlough.  So he started taking them.  

He went to Iceland.  And Palawan.  Machu Picchu.  Milos, Barcelona, and Patagonia.  

Following the blogger around the world became Duo’s happy place.  Around the office, he became known as the guy to talk to about a really excellent vacation, which was fine.  He didn’t mind.  It was something to talk about other than how his last few missions went or what his range qualifications had been (always in the top two, he and Chang battling it out for first place every year).

Duo made himself an Instagram account.  Took his own pictures, though they weren’t nearly as good as the blogger.  He didn’t include any pictures of himself either.   Started commenting on the blog’s Instagram photos.

_ ‘This was even better in person, thanks for the tips!’ _

_ ‘This has been my favorite hiking trail so far.’ _

_ ‘The surfing here was fantastic in September.’ _

Nothing crazy.  He didn’t expect any reply, anyway, he just… wanted to reach out into the void to whomever it was that had provided him some relief. 

It was the balloon festival in Turkey that got him a response.  

_ ‘Had breakfast on the rooftop of my hotel, the view is fantastic.  Thanks for the tip!’ _

Only an hour later he got a reply notification.   _ ‘Try Keyif Cafe for lunch.’ _

So he did.  The food was delicious.  

The Traveler, as Duo now thought of him, sometimes responded to him, enough to be called often, not enough to be called regular, and they developed a relationship of sorts.   After about six months, he got a direct message.

_ ‘Are you working your way through my entire blog of destinations?’ _

Duo sent back an awkward smile emoji and a maybe.

He got a laughing emoji back.

A few weeks later he posted a picture from his hotel window in Venice, and The Traveler messaged him an address.  Curious, Duo went, and found a small hand-blown glass shop, offering free demonstrations.  He didn’t post pictures of that, but he sent one back to The Traveler in a private message.

Several more weekend trips and a few more addresses furthered their camaraderie.  Duo started instigating the conversations more, often with a photo of whatever activity he’d stumbled across in his recent destination - jugglers, snake charmers, and, once, the view from his parasailing adventure.  The Traveler sent him tips that took him outside the tourist traps, to little known opportunities and experiences, the trips all the richer for his input.

Then Duo was assigned to an undercover sting that was going to take weeks at best, months at worst.

_ ‘I’m going out of town for awhile, won’t be around.  See ya when I get back?” _

_ ‘You’re out of town a lot ;) What’s your destination this time? No internet access?’ _

_ ‘Business trip, and yeah, something like that.  It’ll be a few weeks.’ _

_ ‘I’ll be here.’ _

Duo came back 9 weeks later, exhausted and bedraggled and heartsick, the mission a success on paper but soul-sucking and mind-destroying in practice.  After he debriefed and collapsed in his still-sterile government provided apartment for seventeen solid hours, he got on instagram and found a half-dozen photos in his private messages, along with three suggestions for his next vacation destination.

He went to Sedona Park, Arizona, and hiked to Cathedral Peak, one of the first places he’d seen a photo of The Traveler, hanging by one hand, silhouetted against the sun.  

He filed the other locations away for another day, when he didn’t feel like the devil in human skin.

_ ‘You didn’t like my suggestions?’ _

_ ‘Nah, man, they’re good.  I just.  Needed something different.  Seemed appropriate.’ _

_ ‘Getting closer to God?’ _

_ ‘Getting further from myself.’ _

After that, the trips didn’t help as much.  They were better than the alternative, but Duo was as burnt out as ever, nearly ten years at Preventers, six years without a partner, three years without even a close friend, when Wufei had transferred to the Lunar station as Chief of Space Operations.

He was starting to seriously consider Quatre’s offer.

At least the job, anyway.  Not so much the rest of it.  

Duo wouldn’t admit it under torture, but he still carried an unblighted torch for one Heero Yuy, despite the near-decade since he’d last laid eyes on the man.

He kept talking to The Traveler, swapping vacation stories and very little personal information.

Duo learned that The Traveler liked sunsets, Indian food, and had a beat up denim jacket that could stand to be replaced but he couldn’t bring himself to part with.  

Chuckling to himself, he’d responded  _ ‘Yeah I had one of those myself, just after the wars, but it disappeared on me.  Never did figure out what happened to it.’ _

He got a winky face in return.  

Duo had also shared a love of Thai cuisine, hang gliding, and the uninterrupted light of stars in space.

Another mission-related hiatus, another trip to natural-born wonder, this time in Preikestolen, and Duo was starting to realize there was no end in sight.

No end of missions.  No end of risking his life for some vague notion of peacekeeping.  No end of people that needed to be killed or were trying to kill him.  

No rest for the wicked.

Quatre was calling weekly, Trowa hovering over his shoulder, a look of concern on his face.

He’d been travelling regularly for three years by now, looking for some elusive sense of peace that he found, sometimes, at the base of a canyon or the top of a mountain, or occasionally when he gave a hungry person money for a meal.  He’d been conversing with The Traveler for two.

_ ‘Hey man, how’d you get involved in that well-digging thing a few years ago?’ _

He took a month’s leave at work, went to Africa, dug some wells.  Repaired some pumps.  Took in the intense joy and gratitude the people had for something as simple as clean water.

Wondered what in the hell he was doing with his life.

Started wondering who The Traveler really was.

Started trying to find out.

Oh, he felt vaguely guilty about it.  The man had obviously gone to some lengths to keep his identity a secret.  Duo could understand that.  Did understand that.

It didn’t stop his curiosity.

He offered the man his name.  Duo wasn’t well-known in the Earthsphere, for the most part, but he had a certain notoriety in certain areas.  He’d had to cut his hair, as a matter of fact, years ago, for an undercover op, a child trafficking ring that was one of the very few dirty, bitter missions that he felt good about.  Had made a difference.  

It had been worth the pain of shearing off his hair, laying Sister Helen to rest, giving up on the last vestiges of the dirty orphan he had been.

He still wore his hair long, but it lacked the recognizability of a three foot long braid. 

_ ‘We been talking so long I feel like I oughta at least tell you my real name.’ _

_ ‘Don’t worry about it, you don’t owe me anything.’ _

It was that comment that made Duo feel so guilty when he’d begun hacking the man’s identity.

And come up blank.

Which was impressive and frightening.  Once upon a time, Duo had been the hands down best with computers, even amongst the other pilots.  Those weren’t skills he’d let lapse, but he hadn’t had any real challenge in… a very long time.

So he’d hacked, and he’d investigated, and he’d used every dirty, cheating, backdoor skill he’d ever known and invented one or two and for a while the very challenge of it was engaging enough to keep him occupied.

The most he’d been able to find was an IP address.

It moved, regularly, and after a while Duo was able to discern that it coincided with photos on The Traveler’s Instagram, but days or sometimes weeks late.  Occasionally out of order.  

Just an IP address, to a nameless, faceless man who had, even if he didn’t know it, probably saved Duo’s sanity, if not his life. 

It was depressing.

A few more missions, a lot less sleep.

Duo got shot in Beirut.

When he woke up, sans his spleen, Quatre and Trowa were hovering over his bedside, brows pinched in worry.  

He groaned.  

They filled him in.  Packed him up.  Checked him out and took him home with them.  Let him rest and recuperate and left him mostly to his own devices.

He’d been in and out of consciousness for a week in the hospital, and in Lebanon for two weeks before that.  When he finally got his computer back, there was nothing waiting for him except two short messages on Instagram, driving home just how lonely Duo’s life was.

Maybe Quatre was right.

_ ‘Miss seeing your adventures.’ _

The other message was a picture of a tanned hand, young and strong, with a scar near the thumb that looked like what happens when you hold a gun too close to the slide, petting a fucking shark, captioned  _ ‘Seemed like your sort of adventure.’ _

Duo laughed out loud, pressing a pillow into his incision site.  

_ ‘Much better than the one I was just on.’ _

To his credit, The Traveler didn’t ask.  Duo’d told him, a long time ago, that he couldn’t talk about his work.

He went back to Brussels four weeks later, much to Quatre’s disappointment and Trowa’s frustration.

“You’re killing yourself, Duo,” Trowa had said, gripping his forearm, green gaze staring down at him in the shuttle port.

“I don’t know how to do anything else, Tro.”

Duo went to Hawaii the next month.  The Traveler was there at the same time, or his IP address was, but Duo didn’t look for him.  It was enough to know they were in the same place for once.

Just barely enough.

He was on light duty, still, when the hostage crisis happened.  

Une had refused to send him, even though he’d virtually demanded he be allowed to go, to lead the infiltration team.  She’d still told him no.

All the hostages and half the team had died.

Duo had been put on administrative leave, following his outburst.

He called Wufei, from home, fuming and hurt and grieving, and the other man had told him it was probably for the best that he hadn’t been there.

He’d hung up on him.

He’d thought about calling Quatre, remembered the look on his face after Beirut.  

Never considered calling Trowa.

Missed Heero.

The Traveler sent him a picture of his hand and knee in a classic meditation pose in front of the Taj Mahal.

Again the distinctive gun-slide scarring across his thumb caught Duo’s attention.

He emailed Une his resignation.

Hacked The Traveler’s IP address.

Booked a flight to Vancouver, Canada.

By the time he got there, The Traveler had moved on, but Duo took the time to explore the city anyway.  Visited the Capilano suspension bridge.

Didn’t post any pictures this time.

Then he followed The Traveler to Italy, who was, of course, gone when he got there.  Ignored Quatre’s phone calls.  Texted Trowa that he was fine, he just needed some time.  Blocked Wufei’s number, just for a little while.

Explored the Alps.  Drank good wine.  Felt some more of the world slide off of his shoulders.  Cashed out his 401k.

Booked a flight to Dehli, India.  

Traced the IP address to a small cafe off a side street, half a klick from his hotel.

Duo walked over.  Hands in his pockets, in his casual tourist clothes, dark glasses and a cap.  

He just… he just wanted to  _ see _ The Traveler. To know what he looked like.  To be able to put a face in his mind’s eye.

Caught sight of dark, tousled hair, two days of stubble, plastic rimmed glasses, glaring with intense focus at the laptop screen in front of him.

Duo inhaled sharply, pushed his way through the cafe doors.

Sat down across the table from a familiar, piercing gaze.

Heero Yuy stared at him over the edge of the laptop screen, the smirk from ten years ago hovering on his lips.

Duo couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

Except.

“I’ve been following your blog.”


End file.
